


What If This Storm Ends?

by trailtothetruth



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Linking the Flame, Ornstein is a mess, Slow Burn, Unkindled Ornstein
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-01-29 06:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21405784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trailtothetruth/pseuds/trailtothetruth
Summary: The bell tolls again. A second Ashen One rises."I rung the bell a second time, Dragonslayer." The Fire Keeper's head follows him as he paces. "Shen gave me sight to see what she did - a grand betrayal. She cannot continue. So thou will give'st her strength-""She murdered my best friend," he hisses."Or thou will take'st her place as the true heir and lord." She smiles gently. "The Lords have left their thrones, and must be deliver'd to them. I am at thy side."
Relationships: Ashen One/Dragon Slayer Ornstein, Chosen Undead/Dragon Slayer Ornstein, Dragon Slayer Ornstein/Original Character(s), The Nameless King/Dragon Slayer Ornstein
Comments: 29
Kudos: 36





	1. they took my life, but it isn't the end

His master had bid him farewell gently, kindly, in the deep of night. Maybe in another time, a sendoff for a knight as esteemed as he would have been a great affair, but the dragons had no such interest in great affairs, many caring only to sit on in silence in their temples, waiting for- something.

Ornstein had never understood, but his master had guided him away gently, told him that here was a calm and quiet place, where they could find their true being, and he believed it. 

He believed everything Gwynsen had told him.

And so he’d travelled back to his homeland, back to where the fire was fading, and the Fire Keeper had bowed solemnly to him, as he’d offered himself up to the First Flame. It was the highest honor, they’d told him, to burn as Lord Gwyn once had, to offer themselves up for the righting of the world.

And yet-

It’d been painful. No, it’d been - more than any pain he’d recalled in his life, and he’d had his fair share. It’d been soul-deep, some deep part of the flame remaking him, and-

He’d opened his eyes. Ash fluttered away from his skin as he hauled himself out of a coffin, and began walking. He was Undead. (Unkindled, he’d later learn: Undead who had failed to link the flame, and were summoned by the tolling of the bell, signalling the coming end of an Age of Fire.) The realization had stunned him.

Ornstein the Dragonslayer, reduced to a shade of his former self, stumbling along the High Wall of Lothric and retching as he was disemboweled, as he was beheaded by the red-eyed knights, as he saw more and more of a land that he could not recognize. (He did see Anor Londo, though, and that made his heart beat faster.) He was a failure. He was a farce, and home had never seemed so far away.

Firelink Shrine was a home for wanderers and outcasts, and it seemed he was no exception there. They welcomed him, and did not question when he refused to talk about who he’d been. Instead, they ate and drank and Ornstein helped care for the many sorcerers, and they told him tales of the Ashen One.

Shen, they all called her, and laughed. Slight as a twig, looked as if a stiff breeze might knock her over. But she is the Ashen One for a reason, they said.

“Been gone for a long time,” one of them remarks once. The rest of them grow silent, uncomfortable, before the Fire Keeper reminds them that Shen is often gone for long stretches of time, and that they should be glad to have such a stalwart protector. Her smile is warm and placating, but the Dragonslayer can see the tension in her hands.

He has been observing, learning, for a long time. The Fire Keeper may be missing her eyes, but her emotions are easily read through her hands, and Ornstein takes it to mean that the Ashen One does not often disappear for this long.

It is hard to tell the passing of the days. Time is warped here now, the Fire Keeper tells him. Cities that should not exist at the same time simply do, and there are mountains that do not seem right, cliffs like the world has been smashed and crumpled together. When he asks, she only shakes her head in despair. "I can only hope that Shen will link the flame, and that she can right all of this disaster."

His hair grows long, and Ornstein is no closer to knowing how to get back home.

-

The shrine goes silent, once. Ornstein can hear footsteps in the main room above. Silently, the others get up and file out, and he’s left with only a few others, who sigh or steadfastly ignore the departure of the sorcerers, clerics, and merchants. 

“Do they all go to attend to her?” He asks, and an old man laughs.

“Sure they do. Kissing her ashen ass, hoping they can get anything out of it. They forget that she’s no Lord - not yet, at least!” They share laughs and jests, but there is a bit too much tightness to their words, and Ornstein realizes that not all of them like the Ashen One. “We old ones tend to be of the mind that, well-” The man lowers his voice. “Maybe the flame should die. Maybe a new world will come to replace ours.” Smiling, his unseeing eyes raise to the ceiling, full of blind hope and faith. 

Unsettled by the treasonous words, Ornstein lifts himself from the bench and goes to see the Ashen One for himself.

As he climbs the stairs, he wonders what she’ll look like. What does a godslayer such as the Ashen One appear as? He thinks of Gwynsen, the aura that he carries. It quiets a room. It didn’t ever matter in the old days, in the palaces of Anor Londo, that he had that shock of white hair or an imposing stature. When he walked in a room, you felt it.

He walks into the shrine, and feels nothing.

The high vaulted ceiling sings with the noise of the merchants and travellers, but they are not clustered around anyone. They linger in small groups, muttering and talking, souls exchanging hands, and he pushes through the crowd cautiously, feeling for something, anything-

He steps backwards, and someone crashes into his back, and he spins about, apologies spilling from his lips, and a familiar gauntlet collides into his as lithe fingers wrap around his arm, and he stops in shock, staring down at the golden metal.

His gauntlet.

His gaze rises slowly to the Ashen One, and she’s asking him something, her lips moving silently, but all he can see is red because he’s seeing Gwynsen again as he leaves his armor there, his lover’s lips pressed against his forehead as they weep, asking the ultimate sacrifice of him-

Ornstein does not think before he punches the Ashen One square in the nose.

There is a satisfying crack and blood slips over his gauntlet as the girl goes tumbling, and he goes stalking after her, weaponless but not caring. Shouts rise around them but he doesn’t care in the slightest.

His lover swore that no one would touch his armor. The only way he’d let anyone get their filthy hands on it if he hadn’t been able to stop them. If- If he’d been dead.

Ornstein’s hand wraps around her throat but she stares back up at him, fire in her eyes. She waves off the weapons being pulled with a lazy hand, and disgust rolls through his mouth. She truly believes she cannot be hurt.

Her blood slips down her face, over his head, but he doesn’t care. She murdered his lover.

“Care-” She coughs, voice strained. “To explain, stranger?”

“You murdered him,” he hisses. He sees red.

“You’ll have to be more specific-” She attempts a smirk, but it falls as soon as he squeezes harder. Good. 

Her lips start to turn blue, and he drops her. Weapons are still unsheathed around them, but he only has eyes for the Ashen One. She killed Gwynsen. She killed him. 

“The Nameless King.” He says finally, and her eyes widen. “You killed him!” He goes to advance further on her, ready to take her neck in his hands again and snap it, but the sudden look in her eyes stops him. 

Guilt.

Recognition. 

Understanding.

He stops, staring down at her. “Give me my armor back.”

She glances up at him, looks down at the gauntlet he’s been eyeing for some time, and nods, unstrapping them and handing them over. As he watches her impassively, regret starting to curl uneasily in the pit of his stomach, she steps around him to wave off the onlookers, saying peaceful, placating words. But he doesn’t hear them, only feeling a void where his heart used to be.

He's dead. He's dead. He's dead.

Catching a glimpse of the Fire Keeper tenderly wiping the blood leaking from the Ashen One’s nose, he feels sick with himself, and slips away into the shadows.

He is Unkindled now. Clenching his long-abandoned gauntlets, he swears that he’ll get back to his home. To where Gwynsen fell. And there, he’ll kill her.

There, he will bring her to her knees and let her beg.

Ornstein doesn’t know the rules of the Unkindled. Doesn’t know if he has more than one chance. But it doesn’t matter. She slaughtered his lover. He’ll spend the rest of this life and all the rest of them taking her down, if that’s what it requires.

It’s as simple as that, he decides.

She will die.

-

He’s holed himself up in some dark corner of Firelink Shrine - he’s slept in worse - and yet, when he wakes, his armor is stacked neatly a few feet away. The image of the small woman creeping in while he slept makes his blood boil, and as he goes through the practiced motions of suiting up, he clenches his fists.

How dare she? The guilty feeling that haunted him in the night disappears, replaced with another burst of rage. 

Heat seething through his bones, he hunts throughout Firelink Shrine for her. The people who accepted and talked with him jovially yesterday now give him wary stares, and he watches as even the old man ducks out of the way. So much for being against the Ashen One. 

He’s stood alone before. After his (first) revival, when he sought out Gwynsen. He’d travelled countless lands on his own, searching for his master, his partner. He hadn’t needed anyone else then. So he wouldn’t need anyone else now. 

Ornstein steels himself as he steps out into the crisp air and sees a familiar figure perched on a heap of rubble. The clinking of his armor draws their attention, and the Ashen One turns towards him, relaxed.

“My oath to my master demands that I avenge him.” He bows to her, breathing slow to control his rage. “I must-”

“If you’re not aware, I have greater concerns,” She interrupts him, and he glances up to find her gaze imperious. “I understand that I have hurt and offended you deeply.”

Rage growls somewhere deep in his throat.

“Dragonslayer.” She says, firmly yet placatingly, the same tone she used with the inhabitants of Firelink. “Your master had gone hollow. His existence was not kind, nor was he the person you would have remembered.” She pauses. “If you had found him, he would have killed you as well.”

Shock reels through him, and it takes all of his centuries of training to keep his knees from buckling, clenching his teeth and riding out the emotions hitting him. By the Flame. Gwynsen had gone.. Hollow? How long had it been since-

“Ashen One..” He breathes, “...how long has it been since Lord Gwyn linked the flame?”

Their head tips in confusion. Something in his stomach sinks down, down, down.

“Who..?” They shake their head. “The name seems familiar. I swear I’ve heard it before.”

Now he falls to his knees. By all the gods. He is in a land, a time where Gwyn’s name is not even recalled. Gwynsen had gone hollow. Ornstein is a man completely lost, with nothing to his name. No one will even remember him now. His glory is gone, his honor is gone, all that is left is the scraps of anger clinging to him and the remnants of his duty.

He looks up at her. “I am a knight from an age long past. The only way I can reclaim my honor is by killing you.” He lets out a deep, calming breath. “I know not why I was risen, and I apologize for my interruption of thy quest.” He slips into the old, formal tongue. It helps steady his nerves, and brings to mind Gwynsen’s steady voice. “But I cannot let thou live.”

The Ashen One studies him with a hard, critical gaze. She wears a combination of leather and metal on her small frame, a cloak too big for her wrapped around her shoulders. The bottom half of her face is covered, and a hood frames her hair, but Ornstein knows that like many other opponents he has faced, appearances can be deceiving.

He waits what feels like an eternity before she speaks again.

“Pray tell, Unkindled, what is your name?”

“Ornstein.”

“Ornstein.” She repeats his name, as if testing it under her tongue. “I will make a deal with you, Dragonslayer Ornstein. You help me, and at the end of my journey, when it comes time to link the flame-” Darkness flashes in her eyes. “Either you shall watch me burn, and see my death for yourself, or I shall withstand it, and you may lay me down to rest beside your master in the dragon lands.”

He meets her eyes and sees no malice. Her words are even, measured. Clearly, she had been thinking of it for some time. And yet-

“And how do you plan to keep me alive at your side, Ashen One? Shall I play the damsel hiding behind you?”

She smirks, and hands something to him. An ember. He feels the residual heat inside it, feels how it thrums to the new pulse of fire in his being - is this what it is to be Unkindled? He’d never quite noticed it before, but it is as if the ember amplifies every part of his being, and he feels his fire reaching out towards it.

“Use it.” 

He lets the fire embrace him, a wave of hot air coming down his throat, his blood suddenly a bit too warm, and looks up at her. He feels stronger. Feels like he has been coated in spiderwebs his entire life and suddenly, they have all been ripped away.

Ornstein cannot see her face, but there is a smile in her voice and eyes all the same.

“How curious.” She murmurs. “So I was right. A second Ashen One.”

“What? Explain.”

She shifts on her perch, leaning forward to study him closer. “We Unkindled are those who attempted to link the flame, only to fail and be reduced to Ash. Most are just Unkindled. They cannot light the bonfires, cannot travel far upon them-” She eyes the crushed ember still in his hand, the faint glow of his form. “...and cannot call upon the power of a Lord of Cinder. Like I can. Like you just did. But the Ashen Ones are different.” The reverent, deep cadence of her voice fades. “That is what I have learned from the Fire Keeper, anyways. The Unkindled will die if they are killed. But we..” She smiles. “We cannot die. Unless we go hollow, that is.”

“Unless we go hollow…”

“Yes. So, at the end of all this, Dragonslayer Ornstein… I will have no purpose left for me, and I will let myself hollow.” She leans away, crossing her arms over her chest. “And in the meantime, us two Ashen Ones will save the world.”

He finds himself letting out a bitter bark of laughter. This is ridiculous. This is all absolutely ridiculous. And yet.. Knowing that there is an ending, somewhere distantly in sight..

It gives him strength that somehow even outpaces the powers of the ember he’s consumed, as he kneels down before her, and the words feel like sludge on his tongue, so wrong, so wrong, as he swears his loyalty to her. “I, Dragonslayer Ornstein, do hereby serve as your faithful knight, to defend you and fight in your endeavours until the day comes where you have linked the flame, and gone hollow.”

She stares down at him, and nods. “I accept your vow, Dragonslayer Ornstein, and its terms. The world requires our help.”

They are great words. Noble ones. Words he would have rather heard out of Gwynsen’s mouth. Resentment for himself, for the Ashen One, curls hot in his throat, and he steels himself, trying not to let it show in his demeanor, but he knows that if not for his helmet, his face would have given it away.

Gwynsen laughs at him long ago, patting him on the cheek fondly. “Everything you’re thinking shows on your face, except when you’re fighting.” They lay side by side, foreheads touching, and his lover is laughing at the red dusting his cheeks-

Ornstein jerks himself out of the memory to see the Ashen One hefting out something from behind her, and as she approaches him, each step slow, she shocks him for the third time in a day.

In her small hands, is his spear.

He takes it reverently, feeling its weight in his hands. Thousands of years have not degraded it- impossibly. 

Gwynsen kept all of this safe for him, until he’d gone hollow, and then even after. Ornstein knew what happened when men went hollow. They lost their sanity, their memory. They fought mindlessly, recklessly, without care for their own lives. They were broken men. And yet-

The Ashen One cannot see the water welling up in his eyes, and for that, he is glad. “Thank you,” he murmurs to her. The bitter regret haunting him earlier comes back, and he could kick himself. He has punched her in the face - she has not healed it, he can see the bump and darkening bruise of her nose - and yet she has given him everything he’s asked for.

“I am sorry for my behavior.” He says, before she turns away and his chance is lost. “I should not have hurt you.”

She raises her eyebrows, before shaking her head. “Do not think twice about it, Dragonslayer. It is a good reminder that behind every hollow was a man, once, and that men have companions and loved ones.” With a respectful nod, she leaves him with, “I will meet you at the bonfire tomorrow morning.”

He watches the dark-haired Ashen One leave, and he feels as if some tension should be disappearing from his shoulders, some magical weight being lifted, but in reality there is nothing at all. Hatred for both himself and the Ashen One seethes behind his eyes, and he tightens his grip around her spear. Doubt seethes within him for the constant indecisiveness of his emotional state - you’re a soldier, you’re better than this - but he ignores it.

Making that deal will be the worst mistake she's ever made, he decides, striding up to the top level of the shrine with slow, measured strides. So will be giving him his weapon.

He already looks forward to ramming it through her throat.

-

In the early hours of the morning, he wakes to the typical silence of Firelink. He has grown.. Familiar with it all. No one disturbs him in his secluded corner, and he has slowly adjusted to being Undead. Well - he thought he was adjusted. 

All until a certain Ashen One came in and ruined it all.

Ornstein goes through his morning routine unsettled by the thought of journeying with her. It only occurs to him then that she’d put a quite obvious loophole in for herself, and he curses himself soundly for not recognizing it in the moment.

The Ashen One had never specified when, exactly, she would go to link the flame - only “at the end of her journey”. Thus, if she found purpose somewhere, she could string him along for however long she desired. He grinds his teeth in aggravation. He is a fool. Such a fool.

And yet, as much as the words had tasted foul on his tongue, he does not want to break a second oath.

So he goes about his routine, and gathers his meager possessions. His armor, his spear, a ring that had been buried with him, and precious few healing items. 

Muscle memory persists, even through death, it seems. His fingers know how to thread together the fine parts of his armor and how to gather his hair into its high clasp for his helmet. His red hair is filthy, though, and he winces. He knows the Fire Keeper and others have access to water for cleaning, but he knows it has never been his place. Nothing is his place anymore, after all. He fell from his old grace the moment he left-

There is no use dredging up old memories, he tells himself, and moves on.

Keeping his steps soft and slow to move silently in his armor, he creeps down the staircase, slowing when he hears voices.

“Ashen One, are.. Are you sure? I am sure that there is not meant to be more than one who shall link the flame.” The Fire Keeper’s soft voice barely reaches him, and he clenches his fists.

“I saw it with my own eyes.”

A sigh. “You know how it has all ended before, Ashen One. Are you willing to take that risk again?”

“It’s not like that. I just don’t mind the assistance, and he..” She hesitates. “If I am to survive the linking of the flame, I will owe him something.”

Silence. Tense, disapproving silence, before he hears footsteps, and as he steps around the edge, he watches the Ashen One kneel down beside the bonfire on her own. Waiting for him.

Gritting his teeth, trying to keep his roiling emotions in check, he focuses on each step forwards toward her. Each step crossing a distance that feels like an eternity, until the flame is right in front of him and the Ashen One jerks her head up to look at him.

Twin swords rest at her hips, he notices, short and curved. Simple. He will have a difficult time defending from all the angles she can cover, but she will not be able to stand against his attacks.

Good.

“My knowledge of the place should be enough to take us both there.” She says quietly. She sounds defeated as she offers him a hand, stretching the other towards the flame. “Shall we?”

“Where are we going?” He makes no effort to take the offered hand, and she narrows her eyes.

“That is a good question. I have not yet figured it out myself. I was hoping for a second opinion.” A half-smile.

“Very well. I am sworn to you.” Her smile disappears as he takes her hand, and then there is nothing but the warm heat draping over them, and he can feel her soul next to his, almost blinding in its radiance, and he thinks briefly that maybe he was wrong, maybe this is something worthy of being a Lord of Cinder, and then that’s gone too, and all that is left is her brilliance, fading into white.

White snow.

He looks around.

There is nothing but snow and trees.


	2. so far from who i was, from who i want to be

There is nothing but snow and trees.

As he gets his bearings and steps away from the overwhelming warmth of the bonfire, he can sense her presence behind him. Each of her steps are loud, announcing her presence.

She is wary. A mockery of a smile twists his mouth, but fades quickly. He does not know how to feel about it anymore.

"A strange man held out a scrap of a painting to me," she says, coming to stand beside him, knocking him out of his thoughts."When I touched it, it pulled me into this place."

“Seems like a foolhardy idea.” He comments, looking anywhere but her. The forest is silent and covered with thick fog, until he cannot tell where the snow ends and the fog begins.

“We are Ashen.” She blinks up at him, confused. “We have nothing to fear.”

His expression is thankfully hidden behind the visage of a golden lion, but he gapes at her anyways. Even through his journeying, he has never considered - he is Ashen now. He cannot die. No matter what, he could go through life careless, conquer anything he wanted, because he would not die.

Uncomfortable with his sudden realization, he starts walking, refusing to touch the sharp, sword-edge thoughts surrounding Shen, his past, everything. He will let the cold seep through the cracks in his armor and cool his soul, soothe the angry red of his face, and he will not show a hint of weakness to the girl behind him. Clenching his spear tighter, he remembers his vow the night before.

She will die. Just as she deserves.

They creep together through the snow, Ornstein dropping back to walk by her side - to keep her in sight. As they walk, she makes a small “ah” sound, stopping to take something from her belt.

“I’ve not found another Estus Flask in my travels,” she frowns. “When I try to take others’, they simply shatter. I suppose we will have to share, then?” Holding up a small green flask, she swirls the golden liquid inside. 

Ornstein looks closer. It’s almost.. Glowing. He’s heard of them, and the sight brings back painful memories of another Undead. He’d never seen their face, but he remembers their wicked sword slashing at him, bringing him to his knees, Smough-

Shen is staring at him, her eyes dark under her hood. “You alright?”

Before he can answer, an arrow hits her in the side, and she groans. Whirling about, he sees knights in the trees, their weapons unsheathed. Another fires a flaming arrow, and Shen shoves him to the side to avoid it.

A calm seeps over him, and he moves, his steps quick, his armor light on his shoulders as he runs his spear up one soldier’s ribs with a practiced movement. The ember still burns hot in his blood, fueling his fire, as he moves onto the next. This soldier backsteps, bringing his torch to his mouth, and Ornstein dodges in, letting the fire run harmlessly over his armor. If this armor can stand dragonfire, he will live here. 

He slams his shoulder into the other man, driving the bottom of his spear through his stomach to pin the stranger to the ground. It’s helpless against Ornstein’s attacks, and he only smiles under his golden helmet, drunk on the thrill of the fight.

A shield bashes the backside of his helmet, and he spins to clap the flat side of his spear against its head. Its helmet protects from the blow. A hand reaches up to his arm, a gloved hand that doesn’t feel quite whole.

A sword pierces through the soldier from behind, and it drops to reveal Shen staring evenly at him. “A gift for you.” Is all she says, before she dodges away.

Ornstein spares a moment to glance after her. She dodges fast, skidding across the snow, becoming invisible with every other movement. An enemy swings at her, she fades through the swing, disappearing, then appears behind them, shoving one twin sword into their back. 

He can admire her lethal artistry with the blades.

But he’s more watching for her weaknesses.

She favors her left leg, he thinks, turning to an advancing soldier and slamming his spear into its left knee. He backsteps around it, forcing it to pivot on the bad leg, and when it flinches, he goes in for the kill.

Their numbers dwindle and fade, and eventually it is just Ornstein and Shen in the woods together. Taking a swig from the golden liquid, she offers the flask to him, but he shakes his head.

Together, they venture onwards, into another area of the snowy woods, and they carve their way through a pack of wolves. Ornstein can’t shake the feeling that they’re being watched, though, like something is judging him.

Snow starts to fall as they make their way towards a watchtower. Knights guard the way that make the soldiers they faced before look puny. Each of them is easily Ornstein’s height or more and carries a deadly heavy weapon that they wield with surprising swiftness. They lure them out one by one - Shen is particularly good at that, with quick little dodges that make her form disappear into thin air where they swing, and Ornstein moves in afterwards, capitalizes on the opening.

They don’t make a half bad team, he admits to himself, grudgingly, as they enter the old, ruined tower. Bodies of the knights litter each floor - some new, some old. He sets his jaw as he shoves one archer out of the window. It doesn’t matter. He must avenge Gwynsen. She’ll die by his hand.

As they ascend the tower, Shen spots a glimmering soul on the other side of a gap. “Look. Think I can make it?”

He has no reply, only glancing sidewards at her as he uses a handful of snow to clean his golden spear. Really? Is she going to try to jump that, all for a-

She jumps it. And sticks, surprisingly, but the stone on his side crumbles away, and she swallows as she looks back. “Well. That’s fun,” she remarks sarcastically. “Mind giving me a hand here, Ornstein?”

Pushing himself to his feet, he offers out a hand, but try as she might, the gap has crumbled just too far. Shen hesitates, then looks up, eyes gleaming.

“Come on. Let’s go.” Ornstein groans, and has an idea he’ll later regret. “I’ll catch you.”

Her eyes light up, and he’s almost ready to walk away when he realizes that she probably knew this would happen, before she takes two steps back, and then launches herself at him.

The thought of pushing her back and letting her fall crosses his mind for a split second, but he opens his arms to catch her anyways, and she crashes into his chest, not tipping him over in the slightest.

Putting her down, he only remarks, with as much venom as he can muster, “Happy now?’

Shen doesn’t reply, and Ornstein sneers under his mask. He doesn’t know if it’s at her or himself.

-

They continue up the hill, and halfway up a ravine, Ornstein looks up, and stops in his tracks.

“Sif?”

Shen stops, turns back to him. “What?” Following his gaze, she looks up. “Oh.”

It’s.. a greatwolf. He’s.. Sif? It can’t be. If it’s been so many years - but it looks just like her, in all his memories, and only years of training keep him from dropping his spear in the snow. 

And then the wolf pounces, straight onto them. Straight onto him.

He’s frozen. Can’t do anything. It’s Sif. It’s Sif. A thousand memories flash through his head, the four Knights of Gwyn, their strange group and their wolf, and his eyes are watering-

The wolf bites down on his arm savagely, and he bites his lip as he feels something break. He weakly shoves the spear up at it, but he can’t, it’s Sif, Sif is here-

Twin blades come down on its head and the greatwolf fades away into dust.

He gapes at nothing behind his mask for a few seconds before struggling to his feet. His shoulders are heavy. His hands tremble. Shen looks at him for a long, long moment, but says nothing.

Ornstein follows a few steps behind her, his steps heavy through the snow. His arm is surely broken. He carries the spear in one hand, the other limp.

And then the ground disappears from beneath them. Snow breaks and cracks, and they plummet downwards. Shen lets out a shriek but it’s swallowed by the din of the collapsing snow.

Ornstein hits the ground hard. Harder than when a dragon picked him up and threw him that one time. He tries to shield his broken arm on the landing, but it hits anyways, and a noise of pain is wrenched out of his throat.

The Estus- he doesn’t even care about Shen, he just needs this godsdamned pain to fade enough so he’ll stop seeing white-

All he’s seeing is snow, he realizes, dribbling through the holes of his mask and falling on his face. With his good hand, he digs in the direction he thinks might be is up, and as he drags himself upwards, coughing, he sees… a cathedral, far in the distance.

It’s massive and old, similar to Firelink Shrine. A long, long rope bridge spans from one side to the other, and there is absolutely no sign of life, except for the other Ashen One currently pathetically crawling out from the snow, hacking and coughing. He watches her down about half the Estus in one go greedily. His lip curls as he pulls himself to his feet, staggering.

“Pass it over here,” he orders, towering over her, and she does so without complaint. There is a tiny slit in the mouth of his helmet, made for exactly this sort of thing - although previously he’d hated it when blood slid through and onto his face - and he carefully does not look at his arm as it goes numb, reforming itself.

The Estus does infuse a comforting warmth, though, and he passes it back to her without another word.

“I hear a bonfire nearby,” she says quietly, and at his glance, she elaborates. “They have a certain sound to them. You’ll start noticing.”

The sky darkens as she leads them into a cave, with indeed a bonfire in the center of it. Her back is to him. He tightens his grip. 

Ornstein breathes in. Out.

“So what happened with the wolf back there?” She asks lightly, touching two fingers to the top of the coiled sword in the bonfire.

He does what he’s been dreaming of for the past day and slides his spear through Shen’s ribs. She chokes, crumples, perfectly, just how he’d been fantasizing, and as her body fades into ash, he realizes two things:

One, bonfires do have a sound.

Two, he is ashamed of himself.

-

Her weight disappears from the spear, and he feels her burning presence behind him as she reforms at the bonfire.

He waits for the sword in his back.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, she moves slowly, one step at a time, circling around him to meet his eyes. She has one sword in hand, but he can’t bring himself to hold her gaze - the disappointment there is too piercing, too reminiscent of another woman from long ago. She makes no move to retaliate, or to harm him. She just stands there, shoulders slumped, watching him with tired, tired eyes.

Grasping for straws to cover his stupid, stupid actions, he says finally - “I thought.. Your souls..”

Her eyes soften. “Oh. I.. I’m sorry, Ornstein, but your master is gone.” She pauses for a long moment, sheathing her sword. She truly believes him, then. He doesn’t know if he’s pleased or sickened by it. 

He watches her close her eyes, blowing out a deep breath, before drawing something glowing from her chest. It is.. A soul. Not any soul, he realizes, and he clenches his fist. It is Gwynsen’s soul.

Ornstein steps closer to her as she cups it in both hands, until he is close enough to touch it. “Is there.. Any way..?” He trails off in a tone that he hates, one that speaks not of a soldier, of a knight, but of a lover, and he sees in her eyes that she hears it too, and he hates this weakness-

She shakes her head. “Your friend is dead, Ornstein.” Her eyes are shadowed as she slowly draws the soul back into herself. The illuminating glow fades, and all that is left is the faint light of the bonfire. While they’ve been talking, the sun has been setting, casting them into a deep, moonless night.

Finally, he asks - “Can you take me to Anor Londo?”

“Are you leaving?”

He does not answer.

She stands there for a long time, the only barrier between him and that cursed bonfire.

Ornstein is so tired, and lost, and he doesn’t want to follow this Ashen One around, but then he really doesn’t know what he wants at all, and he can’t decide what to think or feel, his control is lost, he is a mess, he is a mess-

Gently, Shen grabs his hand, the world blurring and fading around them. The frigid lands disappear, and he’s standing in sludge.

He opens his eyes and smells rot and ruin.

“This is the safest place that I’ve found so far. Most of it has been cleared out, but-” She breaks off as Ornstein pulls away from her hand, heading for the figure on the floor and the familiar- oh, so familiar mask.

He doesn’t dare to breathe as he kneels down in the muck and rolls over the corpse there. 

It’s- 

It’s Gwyndolin.

Gwyndolin is dead.

He turns.

The world narrows down to Shen and him.

Lightning crackles along his fingers, his spear, down to his core and through his spine, his hand getting hotter and hotter, a bolt ready to launch, she killed Gwyndolin, she killed _Gwyndolin, shekilledhim_ and he is burning up inside as he launches it with a scream and the world bends and breaks like he can hear something snapping as the air blurs and the bolt goes through her because Shen is gone.

Shen is gone.

His arms fall.

Gwyndolin is dead.

The mask covers most of that solemn face, but underneath it, Ornstein can see that Gwyndolin has barely changed in the thousands of years since. Long, white hair cascades over his shoulders, and his arms are still long and pale, no matter how much he and Gwynsen had invited him to sword practice.

No, small, serious Gwyndolin had always been far more invested into magic, yet his kind smile had never wavered when he’d helped them practice against sorcerers..

Except when his soul arrow had struck Ornstein right in the chest. He’d been distraught, and Ornstein, winded and sputtering, took the laughter as it came. He’d been proud.

Studying the corpse further, he notices the black sludge coming out of the lower half, and the bones entangled within it. There were… skulls. Human ones. This was not Gwyndolin. He refuses to believe it. He couldn’t. This was not Gwyndolin, was not the boy he’d helped raise and grow into a strong man.

And yet- he’d failed.

Rising to his feet, pushing himself away from the pale-haired corpse, he takes a glimpse around the room. 

And freezes.

He knows this place.

Oh, he does. He’s been here so often, in his past, in his nightmares, fighting that Chosen Undead again, getting crushed, protecting-

He spins and races for the elevator.

Gwynevere. Gwynevere. Gwynevere. 

Painful memories flash through his mind. He’d failed her, and still, she’d smiled so sweetly at him, told him she knew where his heart lay, gave him her blessing to pursue her errant sibling- her voice had been so fond, so knowing-

He barges through the doors, panting, to darkness.

Grime had formed here too, in the darkness where her golden presence had illuminated all. She’d rested on that great pillow there, reached down to brush his face gently-

_Go, Sir Ornstein, she said, a soft smile coming over her features. Thy face tells mineself of everything thou desires._

_I-I am sorry, he bowed to her, regret tinging his voice as he backed away. Her impassive, sweet eyes followed him. Thank you._

_Thou were not the only one who mourned the loss of my brother, she reminded him, her gaze sinking to the floor. Go. Tell him what I could not._

Turning away, letting the memories sink like ash behind him, Ornstein leaves, just as he had so many lifetimes ago. This is no place for him anymore. As he walks, a carved stone relief, a new one, catches his eye, and he steps closer to take a sharper glance when one final realization hits him like an arrow through the chest. 

Ciaran kneels in front of them all, blades outstretched and graceful like a bird taking flight. Her masked face is solemn and beautiful, like always. The perfect killer. Gough stands behind them all, a solid shield of a man. Always the caretaker of them all, always sure to make sure Artorias was not consumed by doubt, that Ciaran did not lose herself in her killings, that Ornstein was not letting his facade of being just Gwynsen’s knight slip. He’d cared for them so much. By the flame, Ornstein misses him. Artorias stands to one side, shield strong and face hidden within shadow. Gwynsen had told him of what happened. In his attempt to save Oolacile from the Abyss, Sif and Artorias had been compromised, and the knight himself had succumbed to the Abyss - being put down by the very Chosen Undead that’d killed Ornstein himself.

And finally-

Himself.

Spear outstretched in front of him, cutting an imposing figure with the lion mask, looking every bit the brave and dedicated warrior he was, with no sign of his secrecy with Gwynsen, or his grand betrayal -

Ornstein kneels upon the ground and weeps.

He has failed them all. How many still believe of his loyalty, believe that he died so long ago in these very chambers?

He is nothing but a failure and a fraud to them all.

_And yet you have a chance,_ Gwynevere’s voice rings in his mind, and he opens his eyes, blurry with tears, to peer upon his own face again.

The Ornstein pictured there will never appear again. He is dead. He was crushed to death in these very halls. 

But Ornstein, in some form, still lives on. In an Ashen One still learning the way of the world. In a world where nothing is as he remembered, and no one knows his name any longer.

And even with Shen gone, there is still one last person he can ask. 

But for the time being, Sir Ornstein, the last Dragonslayer, takes off his armor, wiping his eyes, and curls up next to the stone relief. He is cold, hurting, and exhausted. The ground is hard and grimy. And yet, he is here with his old friends, and for a man out of his time and luck, that is enough.

There is no one there to hear his weeping as he lays beside his friends for the last time.


	3. i wonder where you are, i call your name into the dark

He dreams of the four knights all together again. Ciaran is perched on the armrest next to Artorias, casting sly glances at the tall knight that he will never interpret, and she will never explain. Gough casts Ornstein a knowing, amused smile, and Ornstein returns it, combing his long hair over his shoulders. He only wears it down around these three, or Gwynsen. 

Speaking of, where is Gwynsen? He thinks briefly of Shen, and his mind flutters like a trapped bird. Why is he following her? Has he let Gwynsen know? He’s- he can’t betray Gwynsen, and he’s halfway to the door, going to look for him, when Ciaran calls his name, but it’s Shen’s voice, and Sif stares at him questioningly-

And then he remembers Gwynsen is dead.

Ornstein wakes up.

Hard stone digs into his back. Mold and slime infest every corner, and he lays there for longer than he’d admit, trying to process the strange dream, the heartbreak that is carving his chest in two.

Gwynsen is dead.

His name, erased from all of history. Hollowed. Dead. Waiting for Ornstein to come back. Believing that Ornstein would have Linked the Flame, believing-

Gwynsen is dead.

Ornstein lets himself curl up in his own weeping again, shoulders shaking, pathetic little sniffles that echo in the empty hallways. He is alone. Everyone he loves is gone. He has been left with nothing.

What does he do next?

First, slip into that calm state, where he existed when he trained, when he planned a battle. This is a battle. It is him versus the entire world that put him here. His goal? He needs to kill Shen. Shen is okay with this, except she needs to link the flame first. He is also okay with that. First, he needs to figure out why he is here. From how Shen’s described things, the world wasn’t meant to have two Ashen Ones. So - something has clearly gone wrong, and he has a lurking suspicion he knows who might have the answer. 

He dresses himself, rides the elevator down, casts one last glance at Gwyndolin, trapped in the muck and mud of the cathedral, whispers a final prayer to the Dark Sun, and then he plunges his hands into the flame of the bonfire, the same way he has seen Shen do. There is a world of possibilities in his head, but he picks a familiar one. Firelink.

Gray stone surrounds him, and he rises from the comforting heat of the bonfire, staring towards the Fire Keeper.

She stands a solemn figure among the emptiness of the shrine, but her head turns towards him as he approaches her, kneeling at her feet, his head spinning, seeking any semblance of stability, trying desperately to grasp at the failing, fluttering strands of thought swirling in his head.

“Who am I?” He whispers as her hands come to frame his face.

She is murmuring something, faintly, her hands beginning to glow. Her chant is soft and calming, “Let these souls, withdrawn from their vessels, manifestations of disparity, elucidated by fire, burrow deep within me, retreating to a darkness beyond the reach of flame,” He closes his eyes, letting out a deep breath, “...let them assume a new master, inhabiting ash, casting themselves upon new forms..” 

His shoulders fall and he stands suddenly, unsettled by the words she speaks and trying to piece them together in his head. “Who am I? Why am I here? I’m lost.” He swallows. “There is no one I know left.”

"I rung the bell a second time, Dragonslayer." The Fire Keeper's head follows him as he paces. "Shen gave me sight to see what she did - a grand betrayal. She cannot continue. So thou will give'st her strength-"

"She murdered my best friend," he hisses.

"Or thou will take'st her place as the true heir and lord." She smiles gently. "The Lords have left their thrones, and must be deliver'd to them. I am at thy side."

His thoughts stop, backtrack, solidify. “A grand betrayal?”

Sighing gently, the Fire Keeper raises a hand to her silver mask. “Some time before her last departure, Shen came to mineself with a troubling tale. Time is convoluted, especially in a world where the fire is fading. She found some place - some time - where the fire had faded completely. And-” She hesitated. “Shen began to hollow.”

Ornstein swallows with a _click._

“I hoped that thou might give’st her strength, or-”

“Link the flame myself.” He finishes. 

She nods.

“I can’t.” He whispers. “I can’t do it again.” He remembers the flame, eating him alive, saying _No, you are not worthy._ He can’t do it again. “Are you saying that- I need to save the girl who killed my-” He cannot bring himself to finish the sentence.

The Fire Keeper does not respond, and the silence is so quiet, so agonizingly quiet, that he flees from that silver gaze. He was not meant for this. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t do this.

As he retreats, the silver-masked woman calls out again. “She went back to the painting world."

Ornstein does not reply.

As he treads his way back up to where he left, not too long ago, he ignores the guilt curling restlessly in his stomach. He doesn't need to help her. He doesn't owe her anything. She killed Gwynsen. Those reassurances used to settle like a cloak over his shoulders, shielding him from doubt. Gough had always shook his head at him, saying that he was too anxious on the inside. Artorias had even helped him, giving him solid ground to focus on.

But there is no solid ground anymore. No silver knights, no training drills, no Ciaran, no Gough, no Artorias, and no Gwynsen.

The only constant now is the smooth voice of Shen in the back of his head. She's become the new voice of his conscience, and her tone is sad, disappointed, like she was after he'd stabbed her. Not surprised, though.

He has fallen so far.

Running his hands through his filthy, awful hair, he closes his eyes, but her voice carves its way through his head again.

_Gwynsen would be ashamed of you._

He freezes in place, fingers halfway in his greasy red locks.

He has fallen so far. He has abandoned Gwynsen and left him to hollow while he failed at his duty to link the flame. He has reawakened and been lost, vowed his loyalty to Shen, then turned around and killed her. He left her. He is..

_A disgrace._

It is Gwynsen’s voice now. Harsh and booming. Ornstein realizes with a pang, Gwynsen could have likely been the one to link the flame. He’d always had that quiet strength, that inner stability, that Ornstein could only envy. So… why had Gwynsen sent him to link the flame? The question gnaws at his gut, but he dismisses it in favor of the more pressing issue: Shen. Shen was hollowing. He had failed her, just as he’d failed Gwynsen. Shen was alone and who knows how his departure could have affected her. He needs to-

He needs to make things right.

Shen is out in the painted world, alone, hollowing. And at this moment, he owes his loyalty to her. 

He counts down from ten.

For ten seconds, he lets himself feel that anxiety and fear and everything that is threatening to consume him from the inside.

When he hits zero, he squares his shoulders and retraces his steps.

He will save Shen before she is lost to them. Conviction steels his bones. He is the last Knight of Gwyn, Commander, and the lion. He is done falling.

-

The painted world stretches wide around him. A long, long rope bridge extends across a gap, and peering over the edge, Ornstein can see a tangle of tree roots and the soldiers they faced earlier lurking below. She must have gone another way, then, and he scouts around until he finds a ladder leading down, its rungs stained with the same muck she'd left him in the day before.

Breathing out slow, he descends, and follows her trail through the snow.

Destruction follows in her path. The soldiers, like the ones they fought together, with their stomachs slashed open, entrails spilling and freezing in the snow. Carnage that can only be borne of deep, deep rage.

He remembers when Gwynsen would go into a fit like that. Where he’d leave nothing standing. Where even Ornstein would fear for his own safety. Swallowing back another surge of memory, he lets himself slide down a slick slope, catching himself at the end with his spear.

Ornstein has to find Shen before she goes too far. Before she gets herself killed, blind with rage, before she hollows and is lost to him forever. As much as he loathes to admit it, he needs her. He needs her to link the flame. To avenge his master. That is all. She needs him to keep going. To guard her back. They need eachother. That is the end and beginning of it.

The rot lingering in the corners of the painted world makes him gag. Red and sickly, it’s even worse than the muck from the ruined cathedral. But he grits his teeth and steels himself.

There is nothing more to it. He must save her. 

As he moves forward, tracking her footsteps where he can, following the trail of destruction, he wonders to himself - what is the meaning of this place? Is it quite literally a painting? Then- He stops still. In the deepest archives, there was a regiment sworn to protect an unnamed painting. Very few knew of those guardians and even fewer - not even him - knew exactly what it protected. By the Flame, by the time he'd taken up his post in the cathedral, even they'd forgotten what exactly they protected. Had the scrap of painting that Shen had found seen the very same?

Ornstein passes a corpse of a corvian with long, brutal claws, and he shivers. The other corvians laying about, trapped in the mud, shrieking, unnerve him. Shen has gotten remarkably far, he observes. Maybe she hasn’t hollowed after all. Maybe there’s no reason for him to be worried.

He continues on anyways.

Climbing another ladder, he enters a house, pacing his way through tables and chairs - how strange. They look well-used, but abandoned. Not chaotic, as if they’d been attacked. Simply as if everyone had left, or given up.

Something croaks in the corner, and he turns to find a corvian slouching against a wall, oddly coherent and responsive. There is even a fire going under a cooking pot.

“Hello?” He dares to ask.

“Hmm-” The bent-over corvian gives him a piercing look, scanning him from head to toe. “Well, there’s nothing forlorn about you. But-” It pauses, tilting its head from side to side as if confused. “The other Ash has already passed. There is not supposed to be three.” Its breathing is labored, every croak an effort.

“I am ash as well,” Ornstein answers. “Where did the other ash go?”

“Oh, ohh… This bodes not well. But you are Ash, so you may grant us our wish. Make the tales true, and burn our world away..” At his questioning glare, it continues, “You see, my lady, to paint, she must see flame. You are Ash, are you not? Is it not fire that you seek?”

“I seek the other Ash. She was here not too long ago.”

“Ah, yes, yes, the small one.”

“Where is she?” He demands, losing his patience. 

“She went..” The corvian pauses. “That way. To find flame.” It points out the door, further forward.

And so Ornstein goes, pausing when he hears the sound of a bonfire - he winces at the memory it brings - and seeking it out. It’s already lit. He’s on the right track, then. Shen has to have rested after their long day of trekking and fighting, and then this massacre. He must be catching up to her.

He just hopes against hope that he hasn’t messed up again, that he isn’t too late. There is a trail of bodies in her wake, yet-

Ornstein grips his spear tightly. Half of the corvians are dead by the same wounds he has been following for a time - slash marks, limbs carved off, guts spilled open. But.. he's beginning to find different wounds. Ones that remind him of a thrusting weapon - like a rapier, or his own weapon. Puncture marks, precise, brutal. 

Something else was here.

And..

Shen met it. There are splatters of blood, unnaturally darkened. Signs of hollowing. Ornstein swears under his breath.

There's no corpse that indicates Shen killed the thing. Which means… Ornstein surveys the rooftops around him. Nothing. But it is quiet, too quiet, the way the wilderness was when a dragon lurked nearby. Follow the silence to the hunter.

But he doesn't follow the silence. Instead, he follows the red-black blood, his pulse quickening. She was heavily wounded, her steps staggering. Rushed. She was being chased by something. Strange, corvian-like prints follow hers. 

They stop at the entrance to a house, and Ornstein's heart jumps right into his throat. He will walk in and she will be dead. He will be too late. He has failed her.

He breathes in. Out. Grips his spear.

And steps in.

Shen is sprawled on the floor, unconscious. Around her lay dead corvians. Blood everywhere.

He only needs to glance at her face to see his fears confirmed. The hollowing has progressed much, much further. Her face is gaunt and studded with pop-out veins, darkened drastically.

He can only pray that he is not too late. That he will not have to put her down.

He sets to work, assessing her wounds. There are claw marks along her back, a slice along her shoulder where the rapier must have caught her. Something has torn up her leg, and she's unresponsive as he moves quickly to gather snow, not daring to stay outside for too long lest the creature come back to finish the job.

He hunts for her estus flask, but it's empty. Not a drop left. And of course she couldn't get back to a bonfire, because she was hollowed enough that if she died, then…

He swallows. Wonders if she had accepted death. Did she think he'd come back? He'd killed her, then practically begged her for a way out, and then he'd been ready to kill her again. No, she wouldn't have thought he'd come back.

She'd known that she'd die.

He sets to work, cleaning the wounds he can access with the rapidly melting snow, dribbling some onto her lips. She's breathing, shallowly. She's not dead yet.

_When did you come to care for her?_ Ciaran asks wryly, and he jumps. Her voice is not one that has haunted him for a long, long time, and he hisses at her. It's not like that. They need eachother. That is the beginning and end of it. He doesn't care about her, or trust her, as far as he can throw her, but he needs Shen to survive all the same. Ciaran laughs, not unkindly, before fading away, and he closes his eyes, breathes out.

He doesn't dare to take off his armor or rest while that.. thing.. is still out there, so he sits next to Shen's prone form, balancing his spear over his lap. It's then that he realizes that Shen is not her real name.

Ashen. Shen. She is named simply for what she is, her only purpose - to link the flame and burn. 

"We are the same, you and I." He speaks to nothing, hoping it will calm his nerves. "All we have left is duty. And when duty fails us.. what do we do?"

Her duty is to link the flame. His is to kill her. It is the only solid ground he has left in this strange, rotting world, where it is cold and unfamiliar and he knows nothing.

He does not dare close his eyes, does not dare take off his armor. Instead, he stands vigil over her body. Waiting.

Centuries could have passed while he waits. He does not know. Only letting the seconds slide by impassively. Letting time blur by. Waiting. Listening. The beast is not done with her.

Finally, a monstrous form skulks by the door. It carries a long, thin blade that casts a shadow into the house. It waits. Ornstein lets himself slip down, down, down into that killing focus, only one thing his goal: put it down.

There is no time for details. He rises with a predatory sort of grace, not making a sound. His spear is steady in his hands as he hooks it into a dead corvian and slowly, agonizingly slow, manipulates the body closer to the door. Letting it be heard.

He lets the corvian fall in front of the door, as if it is too exhausted to move any further.

A dark rapier reaches from the shadows like a snake striking, piercing into the body's neck. Securing the kill.

Ornstein puts all his weight behind the spear as he drives it into the beast's thin hand, pinning it to the wall. There is a terrible shriek, and Ornstein can only duck as it slashes a set of long, razor-sharp claws at him.

It presses itself through the door, snarling and screaming, it's head bowed to fit, and Ornstein summons that great lightning bolt he once dreamed of hurling through Shen, his arms crackling with energy and fear, because it must not get past him, and he drives the bolt through its chest.

When it falls to its knees, he takes that elegant rapier and plunges it through the corvian's neck.

And then it is over. 

He stands, shakily, taking his spear from the wall.

There is a groan behind him, and he looks to see Shen, pushing herself up into a sitting position, barely. She coughs up blackened blood and his heart sinks.

"Shen?" He breathes out, dropping the corvian's rapier. "I'm here."

She gazes up at him, eyes glassy and unfocused. "Wha.. No. I know you're not coming." She turns away, letting herself slump back to the floor. "I'm going mad, aren't I?"

His heart sinks further, impossibly, and he kneels at her side. It's not as if he could blame her for not trusting him, for not believing he'd return.. after all, he'd tried to kill her _twice_ now. Her head is buried under her arms, shielded from _him,_ and abruptly, his eyes water. He has fallen so far. His only companion in this dark world doesn't even believe that he'd come back for her.

"Shen." His voice cracks. "I'm.. I'm sorry. I came back."

Her breathing hitches. 

"I'm going to stay this time," he promises, hands clasped between them. "I won't fail you this time. I am yours."

She shifts, looking up at him. Her eyes are the gray of Gwynsen's stormclouds, of steel, of his silver knights. Even behind the hollowing that mars her face, he can see _her,_ the delicate cheekbones, the scars, the faint freckles dotting her nose. 

"Ornstein?" She asks, hesitantly, and he nods. There is a hint of clarity in her tired eyes now, and he reaches up to take off his helmet, letting her see his own face, his awful, filthy hair.

She coughs weakly, pushing herself up to sit with him. He cannot bring himself to look too hard at her shriveled hands, the damage he's wrought upon her. The damage that is now his to undo.

"Who are you, Ornstein?" She asks finally as he turns back to her. "Who were you before you woke here?"

Settling next to her, their backs pressed to the stone walls, Ornstein tells her of an Anor Londo long gone. He tells her of Gwyndolin, the body in the cathedral, and she tells him tiredly of Aldrich, the Lord of Cinder who ate and ate and ate. 

Ornstein lets the tears slip down his face, seeing in his mind's eye the monster that wore Gwyndolin like a skin, and he tells her of the room behind the cathedral, of Gwynevere and how'd he originally been fooled by the copy of her remaining there, with her final message to him still hidden behind her lips.

He talks long into the night, telling her about his silver knights - apparently Anor Londo is still guarded by them - and manages a teary laugh when Shen shows an unusual amount of temper, recalling a story where she'd been a finger's grasp from safety and an arrow had launched her off the side.

After a while, he realizes the woman has passed out again, her cheek against his arm, and he lets her rest. He is glad that he hadn't had to mention Gwynsen, or his fellow Knights of Gwyn. Pulling out those memories, laying them bare to the other Ashen One, just feels too personal. 

Like giving her portions of his own soul.

He swallows as he takes up her empty estus flask, thinking of the soul that resides within her. Gwynsen - so close, yet so far.

He makes the trek back to the bonfire, refills the estus flask. It's night again now - has the day passed so fast? - but the deadly silence is gone, and Ornstein moves quickly.

As he sits with Shen, who drifts in and out of consciousness, his thoughts turn back to Gwynsen. Why had Gwynsen sent him to link the flame? Undoubtedly, of the two of them, he'd be more fitting to do it than Ornstein. There was a bloodline of sunlight and flame in him, and yet- ah. That was why. Because Gwynsen would not be able to stomach following in his father's legacy. Yet - still believed in the linking of the flame.

Ornstein considers asking Shen about it, the "grand betrayal" she saw, but realizes a breath afterwards what a terrible idea it would be. It was what had started the hollowing, after all. And he.. he needs her. 

The thought squirms uneasily in his stomach, but he does need her.

Why wouldn't one link the flame? That was what kept humanity going - the flame, the light. Clearly, thousands of years later, it'd still remained, so.. why stop?

"Because the world is dying," Shen mumbles beside him, and Ornstein jumps as he realizes he'd said it out loud. "Like a man begging for rest."

"What?"

She is gone again.

After a while of sitting in silence, his mind blank, he feels tiredness drag at his eyes, and he sets a trap of corvian bones, jutting up from the ground in spikes, before the door. Enough to buy him a few seconds.

Tomorrow, if she can be moved, he'll try and take her back to Firelink.

But for now, he puts himself in the corner, facing the doorway, Shen propped up against his chest, spear within reach, and he waits for sleep to claim him again.

He dreams of a blissful blackness, cloaking him in nothingness, but there is nothing but ash under his fingers, and he is searching for something that he cannot name or see.

The dark swallows him whole, and he welcomes that final death. 

The ash begins to twitch under his fingers, ash with a heartbeat and silver eyes and dark, dark hair, and is staring at him wide, like -

He blinks, and he is in the corvian house, and Shen's wide eyes are flitting to every corner, her breathing ragged. Gently, Ornstein eases himself away from her, still trying to figure out how to word everything. The sky is just beginning to brighten outside.

"We.. you-" Shen's gaze is everywhere, especially him, and the hollowing of her skin is.. lessening. Her eyes are clear. "I wasn't dreaming, then, was I? You killed it." She tips her head.

He nods. "What happened?"

She is silent for a long time, and he realizes that his hand is still brushing her side from where he'd held onto her while she slept. Nothing but wanting to make sure she was safe, he tells himself, but there is an echoing laugh that sounds suspiciously like Ciaran.

"I was in a rage." She says finally. "I killed and killed and killed and I didn't keep track, and the-the big guy with the rapier, he caught me off guard -" she gestures to her mauled leg, and they both look away from it as she takes a grateful swig of estus - "I stumbled in here, but all I could think of was how I'd failed, and my estus was gone, and I was too far gone to try going back to the bonfire, because if I died-"

She stops. Swallows. 

"I didn't dare hope you'd come back - well, maybe a bit, because that was all I had going for me, but-"

He wraps his arms around her, not knowing what else to do, to ease the awful pain in her eyes, the fear that he was never coming back, the fear of the final death-

She freezes up against him, she is so _small,_ he easily dwarfs her by several heads, and then there is something that might a muffled sob, as she pulls herself closer, her mouth pressing against his neck, and he starts to realize that little Shen, his Ashen One, has become very, very important to him.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs into her hair, over and over. 

They hold eachother for a long time before Shen gently pulls away, tipping her head. "Why?"

"Because I am a man of honor. Because I failed my master, and I failed you, and - we are the same. All we have is duty."

She laughs bitterly. "And when duty is gone, what do we do?" Shaking her head, she explains, "I saw a world where the fire had gone dark. I.. I needed time to think, to consider it. That's why I'm here. And not linking the fire."

He nods, a silent thanks for the explanation he didn't ask for, and lets out a long breath. "Do you feel like you could..?"

There is a long silence that stretches thin between them before Shen shakes her head, closing her eyes tightly enough to make tears well up. Ornstein's heart sinks a little bit. "I am afraid of dying." She whispers. "And estus doesn't work well when you're hollowed."

He dares a look at her leg, through the ripped armor, and winces. Fresh marks still mar it, and when she struggles to her feet, she carefully avoids putting her weight on it. He wrings his hands. This is his fault. This is his fault. He has to do something.

_Then do something,_ Gough says gently.

Carefully threading his hair through his helmet and slipping the golden visage over his face, Ornstein slips one arm under her legs, picking her up. "Come on," is all he says. "We'll go to Firelink and let you recover."

It seems her momentary energy is gone, because she makes a small noise of acceptance and lets her head fall into his shoulder. 

Ornstein treks out into the dawn, Shen in his arms. He doesn't look back at the rotting world around him, even though something touches his shoulder, urges him to look, look, look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas and happy holidays, friends. <3


	4. i'm just a man but i know that i'm damned

The Fire Keeper's silver mask follows him as he stalks away from the bonfire, up the stairs, to where Shen left his armor on a morning that feels like was it was a thousand years ago.

She murmurs slightly as he sets her down, shifting in that hazy sleep. He has a basic understanding of what's happening, at least. Hollowing is based on one's devotion to their purpose and their will to go on. When she felt like she'd lost everything, she'd hollowed. Now that he is here, reminding her of that purpose, she is getting better - he hopes.

He hopes.

He hopes her restless sleep is like that of his wounded soldiers, their bodies demanding rest so it can heal. He hopes that she will wake up and be okay. He hopes that he will not be alone.

He doesn't know where that last hope came from.

He- He likes Shen far more than he ever should. 

Clenching his spear, Ornstein eyes her still form. He will kill her. He must kill her. It is the only thing that will redeem him fully. His heart should not clench at the thought. He has protected her and saved her only so he can keep going. Because he must. Because he has to fulfill his duty. That is all it is. He doesn’t like her.

The dragonslayer knows, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that he is lying to himself, and he leaves her there, steady steps carrying him outside, each carrying him further from her. He knows that he will have to come back.

But for now, the hollows lingering outside the shrine do not fight against his spear, just kneeling, staring dumbly at him. They are silent, waiting for him to strike. Killing them brings him no satisfaction. Despite discovering a purpose, a goal, Ornstein feels no closer to finding himself. He is still a man adrift. A man who is lost. A man who is trying his best but getting nowhere at all.

Staring out far over the horizon, from the top of the shrine’s belltower, he can almost imagine that he can see the peaks of the familiar mountains, that he can see the temple where Gwynsen had finally been free to love him.

Where he’d felt like a man who was complete.

He sighs, running his hair between his fingers. His legs dangle over the drop to the earth below. No matter what, he has to do this. For Shen. For Gwynsen. For all the years in Anor Londo they hid it, for how hard they fought for eachother.

He has to honor Gwynsen. Even if the thought of her kneeling before him, like the hollows he’d fought not too long ago, brings a sour taste to his mouth.

When he comes back, Shen is sitting up, kneeling with a bucket of water. Her dark hair just brushes her shoulders, slick and wet, and she combs her fingers through it smoothly. “The Fire Keeper brought water for us,” she explains, using a spare cloth in an attempt to dry her hair. “Thought you might appreciate it as well.”

Ornstein stops still.

After a few seconds of silence, he glances up at him, brow furrowed in concern. "You don't have to, I didn't mean anything by it.." she laughs a little awkwardly, but her eyes don't quite meet his. "I just know long hair can be a pain and-"

"Yes-" He finally chokes out, cutting her off. "Yes, Shen. I would - I would really like that. Thank you." 

As he pulls the water closer and begins the slow process of soaking his hair, he asks her, "Do you remember your history?"

She is quiet for a time, before she finally takes a seat next to him, tugging one knee up to her chest, and says simply, "I was a slave knight in a war I could not remember."

His fingers freeze midway through soaking his scalp, icy water dripping down the back of his ear. A slave knight. Ornstein meets her gaze, dark and wary.

"Can I help you? Having something to do will make it easier to talk." At his slow nod and a snarl - don't tug my hair - she eases over to him, sliding nimble fingers through his red locks. She works on the knots gently, her nails scratching against his scalp every so often, and eventually Ornstein lets his hands drop as she takes over and begins to speak. "I don't remember many details. Not even my name."

"Shen," he murmurs, and she taps his head gently.

"Yes. Now let me talk… I was a slave knight, and, well, we weren't supposed to survive many battles. But I did." Shen runs her fingers through one section of his hair in a long stroke, and there is a not-uncomfortable curl of feeling deep in his abdomen that he swallows back. "I survived and fought much longer than anyone else," she continues, "and I can remember that my name was well known. Beating me-" 

"They beat you."

"I was a slave, Ornstein." Her hands stop. "They tried their fucking damnedest to kill me. Because I was a champion to the other slaves. I lived too long." Agonizingly slow, her hands start moving again, parting his hair into sections. "But what they could do.. " She lets out a long sigh.

Something in his heart goes very cold, the feeling when you know what somebody is going to say but you do not want to hear it.

"In my time, the fire was just beginning to fade. We were desperate. The Fire Keepers were willing to look the other way at people wanting to make others.. disappear… as long as it was all in the name of prolonging the flame."

He swallows. In his mind, all he can see is Shen, slight and small, alone against the first flame. 

"I did not ever stop fighting them, Ornstein." Her voice is deathly quiet, but her hands are steady. "I did not stop fighting them until they threw me into that flame. That is all I have left. That I do not stop fighting."

"And then…" Ornstein can't help but picture the hollowed, sunken lines of her face, the bleak despair. "You stopped."

"Yes. But you gave me a second chance, Ornstein." Her hands weave through his hair gracefully. "And I am not gone yet."

I like her, Ciaran murmurs, and he smiles.

She pauses, grabbing something at her side, and Ornstein feels the familiar sensation of a braid being tied off before she flicks it back over his shoulder. 

As he turns to look at her, he notes the tear tracks running down her face. The set of her jaw. The storm in her eyes.

"Why?" Is all he can ask. "Why do this?"

"Because I have.. enjoyed the brief moments of time where we aren't at eachother's throats." She closes her storm-gray eyes, a sad smile settling across her face. "And while we both know how this will end, I hope you cannot blame me for enjoying it while it lasts."

He stays silent, letting his eyes trace the lines of her cheeks and eyes. "I truly cannot." They stay like that for a long time, that could be seconds or minutes or hours, before he asks, tentatively, "May I try again?"

Her eyes flutter open, and she smiles slightly, a real smile, one that he cannot help but smile back at, and she finally replies, "Of course you can."

-

Together, side by side, they continue up the hill, past where Ornstein found her. Snow breezes by gently, collecting on the ridges of their armor, and melting into the seams, but he feels a thousand times better with the other Ashen One at his side as they walk along a cliff face, coming to a wide balcony overlooking the drop.

He has to duck under the doorframe to fit, hunching his head slightly, but Shen stops short in front of him, hands dropping to her swords, and a figure melts out of the shadows in front of them.

“I've seen your kind, time and time again.” The stranger growls, unsheathing a wide, ornate sword. “Every fleeing man must be caught. Every secret must be unearthed. Such is the conceit of the self-proclaimed seeker of truth.” A harsh, guttural laugh shakes his form as he whips his sword, black flame running along its length. “But in the end, you lack the stomach, for the agony you'll bring upon yourself..."

Then he charges, a leaping blow towards Shen, and Ornstein doesn’t think, simply moves, shoving his spear up to block her. The blow rattles him, and a spark of pain shoots up his wrist before he moves again, shoving the sword away and going for a low sweep. Shen has already ducked out from under him, all smooth grace as she circles the stranger.

The strange man, while not much bigger than Shen, wields the large sword with dexterity, and Ornstein barely avoids the next slam before he whirls around, smacking away the girl approaching him from behind.

Shen goes flying into a stack of chairs and books.

Ornstein dives in, spear poised to slide in between the man’s ribs, but he turns, and the spear grazes. The stranger presses forward, sword flashing with flames that burn cold, and Ornstein’s eyes catch Shen, struggling to get up. She’s weakened.

The thought renews his strength, and he goes on the offensive, slipping his spear past the dark-clothed stranger’s guard, red hair whipping behind him like a banner.

A glow, in the corner. A miracle, and Shen’s blade shines with a magic that he hasn’t seen in years. It’s enough to make his concentration waver, but she is there, blades shimmering with the darkmoon magic, and he can’t help but smile a bit. Of course. Wielding those two blades, revitalized, Shen leaps around the stranger, ducking by each swing, circling around further to his back. 

As he turns, Ornstein moves, sliding his spear up through the man’s chest, at the same time he whips his sword again, and Shen appears out of her roll with a scream, and then it is her head that is rolling.

Ornstein screams.

The sound is trapped inside his mask, and it bounces around. It’s too loud to his ears, but he can’t- Shen- that is Shen’s dead eyes staring up at him, her head rolling to rest against his foot. The stranger coughs out blood but manages to cast a miracle that restores him, and all Ornstein can stare at, uncomprehendingly, blankly, is Shen’s beheaded body as it falls to the side, and he wants to vomit. This is all his fault. He did this. He did this. He did this. He did this.

The stranger laughs, and moves, and they meet in some awkward embrace as Ornstein twists, waiting for the elegant flourish of cold flame, and then he moves, skewering the man through.

Its hand twitches, a miracle trying to be cast, and Ornstein twists the spear. It stops, then falls dead.

There is a key in its hand.

A key to what? 

How ironic, a key to freedom? Was killing Shen his freedom?

“Ornstein?”

He whips around, and she’s standing there, breathing hard as if she’d ran all the way there, but unharmed. Whole. Head firmly on her shoulders.

“Ornstein?” She asks, a bit more quietly, taking off the helmet that covers her face, that he stared into as her head rolled on the floor. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

He stares down at her, struggling to regain his thoughts, the realization that strikes him like a lightning bolt. “Shen,” is all he can manage to say, choking out the name like a dying man’s prayer. “Shen. You.. you lived.” The hollowing from her face is gone. She is okay. She is alive. She is here, with him, and they are okay.

Seemingly unaware of the tumultuous thoughts running rampant in his head, she simply smiles. “I am. Now,” she dodges around him, stealing the key out of his slack hands, “let’s see about getting out of here.”

-

“She’s waiting for us down there, isn’t she?” Ornstein swallows, looking at the stairs down. After a fair amount of exploring, backtracking, and swearing at huge knights and awful bugs alike, they’d.. Opened… something.

“Waiting for flame.” Shen lets out a long breath. “I think what they’re trying to tell us is that the painting has.. Rotted. That’s why the edges of this world are wasting away. And flame cleanses it.” There is an implication in that statement that Ornstein isn’t quite sure of, some other meaning that is escaping him, but he nods anyways. The painter girl had at least been more informative than many of the other residents of the Painted World, and Shen had filled him in on the Lady Friede. “Something just seems wrong,” she mutters, but still takes one step down the stairs. Then another. He follows her, step by step, his gold armor grimy from the catacombs as they descend into a large, open cathedral. 

It reminds him of another time, long ago.

There is a giant figure slumped in a chair at the far side of the room, and each step towards it feels like an eternity as they approach the bowl he holds. The- Lordvessel? As Shen reaches out one steady hand for the bowl, it feels as if the world goes cold, silent. The giant Corvian raises his head, staring at her.

"Fret not father," a feminine voice rings out, " we have no need of thy flail." Ornstein whirls about to see Sister Friede, padding on bare feet towards them. She carries a scythe that shimmers in the faint moonlight filtering down through the glass. "Tis only the flame, quivering at misguided Ash… " A sensuous smile curves her lips. "Please, avert thine eyes. I will snuff out these ashes for good."

Shen is moving already, away from the huge Corvian, and Ornstein splits from her, moving towards the scythe-wielding woman.

The hood of her cloak barely covers her eyes as she sweeps her scythe for him, low, and he pushes it away with his spear before moving in, distracting her enough for Shen to come in from behind, slashing at the woman's back.

Then the woman disappears.

They both stumble away from where she was, looking about wildly, and a wave of ice sweeps from behind Shen, frosting over her boots.

Friede appears again, swinging that scythe with lethal intent for Shen's head, and he moves.

A burst of lightning strikes from his spear, stunning Friede, and he goes to pull Shen towards him, out of the way, but she's already moving, as she always is, and as Friede recovers, Shen appears behind her, and there is a brutal sound as Shen's sword rams through her chest. Friede falls to the floor, blood spreading unnaturally fast around them, and the giant Corvian begins to scream and shriek.

Covering her ears, Shen points not to the giant, rattling and shaking in his chair, or the bowl of blood and fire, but to the figure rising from the floor, renewed.

Friede's figure is full of deadly loathing as she stands. Embers and sparks fly from her form, and Ornstein gapes inside his helmet. She is Ashen, like them, she is embered, she is like them.

And then the Corvian screams once more, his chair breaking free, and the world turns to flame surrounding him.

He can only move, dodge the bowl that crashes down where he was, losing sight of Shen and Friede through the destroyed furniture littering the edges of the room and the fire slowly licking up the walls. A piece of the wooden beams crashes down upon him without warning, and he cries out before a scythe slices down upon him and then he feels nothing at all.

There is always a second of nothingness, of disorientation, the sound and the phantom feeling of his pain lingering, then fading, and then he is alive again, sitting in front of the bonfire, breath heaving in his chest, and he bolts down the stairs to find chaos.

Shen, a lithe, dark form that he can barely track, darts between shadows, nipping at the heels of the giant Corvian.

He sees Friede kneeling down, a bell ringing in one hand, and he does not think, sliding into the battle calm, simply summoning lightning to his hand and throwing.

She staggers, a hand going to the darkened spot where it struck her, and she stands, approaching him slowly, calmly, and Ornstein swears the temperature plummets despite the flame.

Then there is another earth-rending scream, and a magnificent crash, and Friede goes limp, collapses. The strength of a heir of fire defeated rushes into him all at once, and it's over. It's over. He breathes out.

Then a cry draws his attention.

"Ornst-" She breaks off, coughing. The giant Corvian has disappeared, but the chair fell sideways onto her, trapping her.

"Please," she gasps, eyes bright with pain. "H-help."

The side of the chair pins down her back and legs, and one hand stretches limply towards him as the battle calm clouds him. There is a stillness inside him he does not know how to break. He is a commander, and he does not feel for his soldier, he sees only an issue: she is trapped, he needs to get her free.

The voices of a thousand silver knights rise in his head, thanking him, his cold, hardened exterior never slipping, and how he has changed, how he cares about her.

How he--

He grips the side of the chair, pulls up, and Shen lets out a whimper as she crawls out, drinking estus and looking away from her legs.

He cannot help it though. Cannot help watching bone and muscle and sinew snap itself back into place, the shudder that goes through her body. Even though it's numbed, there is still the feeling of something wrong when he drinks estus. 

Shen's eyes go wide as she looks at him, through him, past him, and Ornstein gets that odd feeling of the temperature plummeting once again, like a cold breeze has blown through.

He turns, and that same infernal, abyssal flame that surrounded the man's blade surrounds Friede's form as she rises again. That black fire spirals around her as she leaps high in the air, a hateful sound slipping from that mouth as the blaze wreathes her form and consumes her.

Shen gasps behind him, pulling him with her, away from the explosion of flame as Friede hits the ground, shuddering the whole cathedral. There are two scythes now, one in each hand, one wreathed in black flame and the other formed of ice. Friede looks at them in utter silence, cold, unyielding. No longer Ashen. Something has corrupted her flame.

Ornstein knows then that Friede will bury them here, or they will kill her for good.

As she always does, Shen moves, darting away and around Friede. The giant Corvian is solidly dead, so they have the numbers over her, but Friede has the element of surprise, and the advantage of two long-reaching weapons.

He breathes, in, out, letting her prowl towards him with that predator's grace. He is so tired. So tired. But he cannot falter. He has to help Shen.

Lightning hums through his bones, hissing to the surface of his skin. It crackles in his throat up into the back of his mouth as every inch of him feels as if it will combust at any second.

Wait, wait, wait-

Friede pauses, hefting one scythe to move-

And a blade rams through her stomach.

Shen hefts Friede off the curved sword with surprising strength, letting her fall. As the woman struggles to get up, Ornstein aims his spear to go through her heart. And she vanishes, ice rippling out in every direction.

He chokes, ice rimming his helmet and dripping down onto his face, and Shen reels back as well, scraping one gloved hand over the ice crystals suddenly blocking her vision. Through the haze, movement catches Ornstein's eye: Friede, behind her, both scythes aimed for her neck, and he only has enough time to scream DUCK as his spear goes directly for her head.

Shen drops to her knees, his spear barely missing the top of her helmet, and it finds its home in Friede's heart.

Her scythe clangs off his armor.

They hang there in an uncomfortable silence, connected by spear and flame and blood, and then she falls, and it is just Ornstein and Shen.

Exhaustion hits him like a wave as he stares at the fallen form of Friede for a few agonizing seconds. She doesn't twitch, doesn't rise, and slowly the buzzing under his skin fades. It's over.

"Let's get out of here," he says simply, reaching out a hand for Shen.

She kneels there for a long second, and he is suddenly aware that not too long ago, he was kneeling to her, and now something has changed, but she breaks the moment by taking his hand, rising, clapping him on the arm amicably. "I have a place in mind," she says. "It is the most beautiful place in the world."


	5. interlude: maybe dreams aren't such terrible things

"I have a [place](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xdiK4yghM2M) in mind," she says. "It is the most beautiful place in the world."

He glances sidelong at her, but she only leads him to the bonfire in the middle of the cathedral, and beckons to it with one hand, reverently.

He's too tired, too exhausted, to think about the second bonfire at the very back of the cathedral as the world blurs around him, as the fire fades away, as the temperature drops. He just wants to rest.

The haze fades away to reveal … the most beautiful place in the world.

A moon hangs high in the starry sky, a thousand points of light twinkling down at him. A fog hangs over a beautiful city, separated from them by a long bridge over water that simply reflects the beauty from above. Every inch of it shimmers or glows in the moonlight. It is.. he does not have the words for it.

"Welcome to Irithyll." She tells him. "It's wonderful, isn't it?"

It truly is. It's the most wonderful thing he's seen in a long time, and it leaves him breathless. Snow falls gently around them as they slightly lean into eachother - it's because they're tired, he vaguely tells himself, but that does not matter because-

“That’s Anor Londo, up there.” She says, quietly, pointing up to spires, barely visible through the clouds and the shimmering light. “That was your home, right?”

It is Anor Londo. He would recognize the shape of it anywhere, the grand towers and the castle and everything that he called home, once, the place he loved, the place he felt alive. And now there is a city below it, a city that is covered in snow, and he knows that it’s a foolish hope, but for one second, Ornstein lets his eyes flit over the lights, the houses, and dreams of a city that is good, and filled with people, and ruled over by a kind god by the name of Gwyndolin, because part of him knows without a doubt that this is Gwyndolin’s doing. There is no city that would be so pure, so moonlit. This is his charge’s city, and Ornstein takes off his helmet so he can feel the air on his face.

“Irithyll.” He murmurs.

“Irithyll of the Boreal Valley. I remember coming out of the tunnels here-” She gestures behind them. “I’d spent so long wandering through that oppressive darkness. Fighting skeletons. Dying. I came out here, and I saw the moon and the stars, and I just.. Cried.”

He will remember this moment for a long time, because for one second Ornstein feels.. okay. As if everything is going to be alright. As if the whole world is just this perfect view of this perfect city, Shen’s hand still in his, just a tiny tranquil moment that he wishes could last forever.

A thought slides past, that he does not want either of them to link the flame, if they’ll never get this again.

“I was one of the four Knights of Gwyn,” he says instead, shoving that errant thought far down. “He gave us each fragments of his Lord Soul, so we might guard and protect his lands. They were my brothers, and-” He chokes on the words, feeling Shen squeeze his hand. “I am the last of them still living. They are all- dead.”

Shen says nothing, but steps closer, her head leaning against his shoulder.

“Artorias, he went after the Abyss. See, he had a talent for it. Mastered walking through it like no one else did. Artorias the Abysswalker.” Shen inhales a sharp little breath, and he glances sidewards at her.

“The Abysswalker. The Abyss- Abyss Watchers. They were one of the Lords of Cinder. I think they.. Meant to follow him, to protect the world from the Abyss.”

Ornstein gives her a small, sad smile, because he knows their fate, the implication that lingers at the ends of her words, the Lords of Cinder, and he knows that they are gone too. “He became infected by it. Went insane. Ciaran, she was the best of us, and she went after him. She never came back, either. And Gough.. He was the strongest of us. This great Giant, blinded but still the best shot I’d ever seen. He kept all of us steady - on the right track. And now.. They.. they’re all gone.”

“And who were you?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“I’m asking you.”

“The Lion Knight.” He lifts his helmet slightly, stares into the visage of the snarling beast. “Commander of the Silver Knights. A leader. A protector. I was great to them, and then everything- everything fell apart.”

Shen doesn’t press, and so he turns to her. Her face is drawn, solemn, as if she can see the memories rushing through him, and he can think of nothing to do but set his helmet aside, grab her other hand, and just start moving, swaying, in the starlight.

“I was in love with Lord Gwyn’s firstborn,” He says, quiet, quieter than he’s ever spoken to her before, barely breathing into the space between them as they dance. “Gwynsen. He was the greatest man I’d ever known. He was born to lead us into a new age, and then-” He glances back to Anor Londo. There are tears slipping down his face. “He allied with the dragons. And Lord Gwyn, he flew into a rage. Exiled him. Wiped every trace of him from the world. There are no texts with my lover’s true name, no statues, and no one dared to speak his name.” A terrible truth settles upon his shoulders. “I am likely the only living being to know his name.”

“And he was..” Shen breathes out, her eyes wide, her hands gripping his arms. “The Nameless King.”

“Yes.” Ornstein chokes out. “The man you killed.”

He considers how wrong it is, for him to be dancing in the arms of the woman who killed his lover, his best friend, in the starlight, against a beautiful city, but then he thinks of the woman who fought all this way, alone, who was so close to failing, and he thinks of the man arisen in a world so different from his own, both fighting towards the same end yet so close to giving up, and he realizes that- “We were meant for this.”

“For finding eachother? Saving eachother?” Maybe he said it all out loud, maybe Shen is just in his head, but he nods, stepping even closer. Because the woman in his arms, with her dark hair and dark eyes, has saved him, somehow.

“I am sorry,” she breathes, with a sense of finality, closing the gap between them to rest her head lightly on his chest. She will not apologize again, he knows, and he is thankful, because some part of him that was wound tight eases. “Come with me. As my friend. Uncover the secrets of this world with me.” She looks up again, and her eyes are stormy, powerful. “I discovered something in that dark Firelink. Something is wrong with the world, and I need to find out why. I think I found one piece of that puzzle in the Painted World, but it’s not complete. And I think I know where to go next.”

“And after that?” He asks, dreading the answer.

“Then we choose the fate of this world.”

The two of them. Two Ashen Ones, deciding the fate of the whole world. He is her sworn knight. He has a purpose again. The thought from earlier comes back, stronger than before: I don’t want to lose this.

And then he remembers he has to kill her.

His face falls, and she must notice, because her brow furrows, and he pushes away from her. “Let’s go back.”

He has to kill her, eventually. He cannot delude himself with visions of this dreamlike city, or a future that could possibly be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This officially marks the halfway point of this story. This scene got reworked a lot (and was originally a lot more steamy--) but I felt as if this version had more impact as its own chapter, as well as a good halfway point, both for the story as a whole and for Ornstein.
> 
> Thanks for being patient. Life has been really rough lately, but I'm here and Ornstein and Shen still have the Ringed City to explore before they have a very big choice to make.


	6. and we could run away

They go back to the shrine, and sit side by side in uncomfortable silence in the dark. Ornstein can’t shake the thought that keeps looping through his head, over and over and over and over: I must kill her. 

For a second, he can’t help but think that he hates this, that he hates the deal he’s made, because the woman sitting next to him, staring blankly into the distance, like she’s a thousand miles away, has saved him somehow, and pulled him from the dark. Part of him wants to live again. But it’s useless, because he knows how it will end. Either way, one of them will be dead. Either way, it’s all been for nothing.

When he dreams, he dreams of crossing mountains, rivers, seas. He dreams of climbing cloud-cloaked cliffs and thinking only that it was for his lover, that he could somehow shed all his regrets and ghosts if he just ran far enough. He’d ventured years from Anor Londo, searching for his master.

He dreams of a great wyvern circling him, its wings curdling the clouds and throwing them into disarray. He dreams of its rider, tall, wrapped in countless layers of fabric, that familiar pointed crown atop its head, he dreams of the man he used to love.

But he’s gone. He’s gone. And all that’s left is ashes. When Ornstein looks closer at Gwynsen, he sees that his eyes are empty sockets, that its bones are barely held together, crumbling to dust, and its skin is hollowed, vacant. He screams, and he screams and screams and screams, and no one comes to help him at all, and the world crumbles to ash, and Ornstein screams his throat raw and pleads as Gwynsen shoves the swordspear up, crunching through bone and muscle and sticking out through his back, and Ornstein screams and screams and screams.

When he wakes, he feels the pressure of Shen’s back against his, and he wants to cry even more, for knowing that he cannot take comfort, even in that. Because he has to kill her, in the end.

He has crossed mountains and rivers and seas and he doesn’t know what it was for at all.

For the rest of the night, he lays there, Shen’s back warm against his in the cold dampness of the shrine, and he sees only Gwynsen, sees only the end. The end will be when he kills her, and then he will find something to do with his eternal life.

It is a discomforting thought, knowing that he cannot die. That in the end, he will have to find some way to pass this life.

A thought slides through his head like a snake among the rocks - maybe after he kills Shen, he will hollow - the snake flicks its tongue cunningly. Maybe then he will put his sword through his own chest and die an honorable death.

Any warmth from Shen next to him is gone now, and he rises slowly, careful not to wake her. Her face is soft and peaceful in sleep, and he pauses for a second as he gathers his things, for once not bothering to don his armor. That will be indication enough to Shen that he intends to return, that he is not going far.

Padding to the central bonfire on light feet, illuminated only by moonlight, he realizes that despite everything, there is a lighter feeling in his chest, something unwound and untangled and arranged neatly where it should be. Despite everything, dancing with Shen in the snowy moonlight… brings him no regrets, and as he kneels to the bonfire, gripping the sword with one steady hand, he finds that the memory brings a soft smile to his face, stirring some emotion that he can’t quite place. 

With barely a thought, he is inside another great building, but this one is hot, smoke lingering still from the battle they’d fought the day before. Looking around, Ornstein notes that while the lower part of the cathedral that they’d fought in is burning and wrecked, the upper part with the paintings is still quite sound, and so he continues, emboldened, up the ladder to find the painter.

She sits on her stool, the same as every time he’s seen her before, considering the canvas lying before her. “Ash,” she greets him without turning, her voice gentle and soft. “My thanks, again, for freeing me, for letting me see flame.”

“What are you painting?”

“A painting much like this one. Of a cold, dark and very gentle place. One day, it will make someone a goodly home.” She smiles, the scales around her eyes glittering. “But, Uncle Gael has not yet returned with the pigment I need. I worry he may’st have gotten himself into danger.”

“What pigment?”

“Pigment colored like the dark soul of man, Ashen One,” she answers, and Ornstein freezes. The dark soul of man.. That was one of the lord souls - an echo of which he had once held inside himself. This was.. Older than him, impossibly. 

“He has gone to the Ringed City, Ashen One,” she continued, oblivious to his growing shock. “But I hold no knowledge of what may lay there.” She turns from her consideration of the canvas, her eyes pinning him there. “Will you go look for him?”

He nods shakily, backing away from her, because yet again, his fate and his past intertwine. Yet again, he senses the walls of his fragile sanity threaten to crumble in within him, because he knows exactly where they need to go, and he knows why fate has lead him there.

Because he has an old duty to fulfill in the Ringed City.

One he left behind long ago. 

Pacing back and forth in the silence of the chapel, he thinks of the past and present, collapsing in on eachother like time, like how Shen said - the world is broken, something is wrong. Time is broken. Nothing makes sense, but in some deadly, incomprehensible way, it does. 

Long ago, he went to the Ringed City as an escort for Princess Filianore. Lord Gwyn had wanted her there as an ambassador to them - although Ornstein had known that there was some greater meaning to it that he was never privy to. While he was there, he’d learned much about the place - including that it forever battled against the darkness, kept at bay by one of the last great dragons, Midir. The dragon was forever destined to protect the city from the Abyss through its magic - and while there, Ornstein, the renowned dragonslayer, had vowed his service to the city by whatever means possible, should Midir somehow escape his duty and their control. The Spears of the Church, he recalled, with some amusement, thinking of his own spear. Those who worshipped yet feared the dragon, who protected the secrets of the city - and Filianore - to the very end.

Yes, that was it. That was where it would end.

It took only the glance of a thought for him to return to Firelink. Travelling among the bonfires had now become second nature. The shrine was empty and silent, it still being this early in the morning, and so in the dim light, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling of all his past collapsing into the present, he went to find Shen.

He found her still asleep where he’d left her, and as he knelt down, debating as to wake her or not, she stirred, squinting at him with sleep-crusted eyes. “Whu- what were you doing, Orns…” Shen murmured, her voice slurred as she sat up. “Watching me sleep.. The hell-?”

He huffed out a bit of laughter somehow. “No. I just returned.”

“From?”

“The Painter.”

“Mm?”

“I know where we’re going.”

This gets her attention, and she sits straight up, eyes bright. “What?”

“We’re going to the Ringed City.”

She simply raises an eyebrow. 

“The city at the world’s end. I was sworn to kill a dragon there once, and the Painter told me that’s where she wants us to go. To find her Uncle Gael, and help him.. Recover the dark soul of man.”

Shen’s already standing, packing the meager things they have with practiced hands, as if she’s been ready to set out for all her life. And maybe she has, Ornstein thinks to himself. Maybe they both know that they’ll find their answers there, to whatever questions they may have. Flame knows that he has many.

Who are you? A voice asks him, that he can’t place.

“What is the dark soul?” She asks quietly. “I know it must be something important, but, I don’t-” She breaks off, sparing them both the words that she could use to explain - because she was a slave knight, because she would have never known of the world of gods and souls.

“At the very beginning, when there was only darkness and flame, hollows came from the dark and claimed four souls from the flame - one of those was Lord Gwyn, rest him well, who first linked the flame and began the cycle. One was the Furtive Pygmy, who claimed the dark soul of man - it gave rise to humanity and many other dark creatures from it.”

“So the dark soul was ultimately responsible for me,” Shen murmurs, sounding slightly awed. “Not every day you talk of the source of your own creation..”

Human. Shen is human, borne of the dark, and- was he human? He can’t remember, the centuries he’s lived blurring together, was he meant to live this long?

They continue down to the bonfire, shoulder to shoulder. 

“The Ringed City was the home of the Pygmy Lords, holders of the dark soul. I know that there’s something about the dark soul that makes it so the city constantly battled against the Abyss, and so a dragon was entrusted with the safekeeping of the city against the dark.”

“A dragon? I thought you - all of your gods - hated the dragons.”

“We did. But we raised this dragon - Midir - and with his immortality, tasked him with the eternal protection of the Ringed City. And it was my duty, if he ever fell to the Abyss himself, that I would slay him.”

“And so you think..”

“Could be a coincidence.”

Shen was silent as they travelled to the wreckage of the cathedral, still burning. Maybe it’d burn forever - part of the magic of the painting, perhaps?

Navigating between the fallen beams, the smoldering and flaming wreckage - the remnants of the Corvian’s chair, the great bowl - wait, was that the Lordvessel?

He finds himself rooted to the ground in front of the great bowl. He hadn’t noticed it before, trying not to die and then being too tired to even think straight, but.. Another remnant of his past, coming to haunt him. Memories of being stuck in that cathedral, his disgust with Smough, waiting for the Chosen Undead.. What a farce.

He remembers dying. Not to the cut of the Undead’s sword, but to a hammer slamming down upon him, he remembers laughing. 

Shen calls his name, and slowly, achingly, he pulls himself away. 

"Everything okay?"

"Yes." He lies, but he realizes as the words slip through his mouth that it is only half a lie. It is a reminder of pain, of death, of a life lived that is now lost, but - it does not coil tightly around his chest, squeezing out his air. It simply settles around his shoulders - a weight, but not a discomforting one.

"There. Another bonfire. And with.. a strip of cloth?" Shen runs the red fabric through her fingers. "Never seen a bonfire marked before. And.. this cloth. It feels familiar somehow. Like I should know it." She casts him an inquisitive glance, but he shrugs.

"Let's try."

When they touch it, there is not even a moment to think about where they might go - it simply sucks them along. There is a great emptiness, a great silence, as if they are crossing a great distance, and then-

They stand on the edge of a great cliff - of a great city.

Ornstein curses violently as he beholds the state of it. The Ringed City. The city at the edge of the world. The Abyss creeps up into it. He can see it in the ground, he can feel it in the air, and he knows instantly that he was right. Something terrible has happened.

"What-" Shen finally breathes, craning her head to look around, and then to look incredulously at him. "What?"

Before he can respond, there is a faint skittering, a chittering noise on the rocks beside him, and he turns to face -- one of the flying demons from Anor Londo?

With no warning, it jumps up, grabbing his shoulder, flapping its wings, and he throws a desperate hand out for Shen. "Wait! Take her too! Don't-"

Another one drops upon his other shoulder, yanking his arm away from her.

They start to lift him.

"Don't you dare go hollow!" He yells, staring into that shocked face. "We have an oath-!"

She reaches out, finally, but she's already too far away, and he barely makes out her last words: "I'll find you!"

Then the demons are plunging through the clouds, and she's gone, Shen's gone, and through the water in his eyes - from the wind of course, he commits an image of that face to memory.

"Don't you dare go hollow," he whispers, any noise swallowed by the rushing wind. "We had a deal. And-"

And? Gough murmurs, and he flinches.

"And I don't want to.." Ornstein trails off. "Lose you."

How ironic. He doesn't want to lose the person that he must kill.

A single, fleeting thought passes by, a regret, a possibility, a mistake. Will him killing her solve anything, really? And, even if he did, could he live with himself? What would he do, an immortal in a world with nothing left for him?

Finally, the demons plunge through the clouds, and slow, bringing him to a grassy cliff, a bridge leading to a wide set of open doors. Before them stands a woman, clad in robes - the old style. 

As he approaches, still gaining his bearings after the flight, she raises her head, holding in both hands a weapon that appears to have a corpse entangled within it. "Greetings. Speak thee the name of God - thine own god, if you can recall."

It takes him a second, but he answers. "Lord Gwyn, the God of Sunlight."

She tips her head, and then upon studying him a bit more, covers her mouth as if in shock. "Thine armor - thou must be the Dragonslayer Ornstein!"

"I-yes, I am." He nods, squaring his shoulders. "Long ago I swore that if Midir forsook his duty against the dark, I would return to see him slain. I fear I may be late." He chuckles slightly.

"I am known as Shira, servant to the Princess Filianore, matriarch of the church. Thou must be one of very few whomst remember thine own God. 'Tis a shame what we've come to." She bows to him slightly, bobbing her head - is that a blush blooming over her cheeks?

"Princess Filianore? She yet slumbers?" 

"Please, I bid thee," she asks gently, with the air of someone trying to convince a child not to wander, "take not from the Princess her peace or rest...As the fire waneth, does she lie by the dark, all for the sake of Man."

"She is.. protecting the city?"

"The city, and the world itself. But I apologise, Ser Ornstein. I cannot answer further." She hefts her weapon slightly, and he decides to take the hint.

“And of Midir?”

She glances away, resting her great weapon again. “Ah. Dragonslayer. You knoweth he once railed against the dark, but was by dark afflicted. Now here, returned, he remaineth…. May I ask thee a kindness? He may still watch over the sleeping Princess, true to his old accords, yet the dark is soon to consume him whole, and I would have thee put him to rest afore his vows are forgot..”

He bows to her. “I have a feeling that was the very reason why I was brought here, Matriarch Shira. I shall see it done.”

A smile curves her face. “I offer my sincerest gratitude, Ser Ornstein, ken to God’s name. I have asked a thing most terrible of thee - may this token of thanks be of aid.” Drawing a chime from her side, she hands it to him. “Is there anything else I might do soothe thine worries?”

"Well- I came here with my companion. Is she alright? The demons didn't take her with me. I need- My task would be much easier with her here."

Shira studies him again, her face hardening. "We do not readily accept outsiders here, Ser Ornstein. If she survives to meet you, you might count her fortunate. But you are the renowned Dragonslayer of legend, are you not?" 

Before he can respond, she turns away, towards the great double doors. "I must retire. Fare thee well, dragonslayer."

The door closes behind her with a bang.

"Don't you dare go hollow," he mutters. "Come back to me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he dreams of crossing mountains, rivers, seas. was it towards the nameless king, or something else, something greater?


End file.
